Sick Day
by Fried Cheesecake
Summary: Someone isn't feeling too well.


Originally posted on my tumblr.

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Ludwig wakes up and vomits on the bedspread.

It's a sunny Sunday morning in Paris and he sits still under the silk sheets, staring in horror at what he's just done. The figure beside him stirs, awakened by the disturbance. Ludwig panics, feels his forehead, feels the sweat and the heat, coughs and vomits again. This time Francis wakes up.

"I think I'm sick," Ludwig says numbly. Francis rubs his eyes.

"I'd say so," he yawns. "Mon Dieu, you ruined my good sheets."

Ludwig flushes in embarrassment- then he realizes that's not what that is and he leaps out of bed in a vain attempt to make it to the toilet. He doesn't get far and has to hold himself up against the armoire as he heaves again, this time on the fancy French carpet. He chokes, coughs and feels Francis' warm hands grabbing him and guiding him to the washroom.

It's a long morning after that. Ludwig is in and out of the washroom, either leaning over the toilet in desperation or lying under the covers moaning. Francis has regretfully discarded the ruined silk sheets and replaced them with slightly more durable cotton sheets; luckily Ludwig has managed to make it to the toilet or the wastebin every time since.

He lies on the bed, curled up under the sheets and shivering, even though it's mid July. Eyes shut, he tries to breathe through his nose in an effort to contain the sick feeling in his throat. Francis enters every now and then to replace the wet cloth on Ludwig's forehead or to make sure that he hasn't been sick again. Ludwig can barely even bother to crack an eye open to view his caretaker, but he mumbles a thanks and lets Francis kiss his forehead and rub his back.

He sleeps for a while after that. In and out of dreams in a feverish daze that lends itself well to confusion, he feels as though he's been tossing and turning all day; when he wakes, it's only noon and his lover is by the bedside with a plate of toast.

"You look like you're feeling better," Francis coos, brushing Ludwig's sticky hair out of his face. "I made you some toast, if you think you're up to it."

Ludwig opens his mouth to say thank you, he's hungry, that sounds nice, but then the smell of food hits his olfactories and he retches directly onto the plate. Francis grimaces, pointedly looking away as the vomit drips off onto his hand and splatters on his pants.

"Sorry," Ludwig coughs, too sick to even be horrified. Francis gives him a weak smile and says, "We'll try again later."

Later comes that evening, after dinner time, when Ludwig finally wakes again and finds the room considerably darker than before. He hesitates for a moment, shifting a bit under the covers, but after a few minutes he gains the strength (and the courage) to pull himself out from under the sheets and sit up on the edge of the bed. A wave of nausea rolls over him, but it isn't so bad that he can't quell it. He finds a bathrobe to keep him warm and trudges out into the kitchen.

Francis is standing at the sink, presumably washing dishes from his own dinner. The radio is on, a flurry of French that Ludwig has trouble following in his ill state; Francis doesn't hear him come in at first, but then Ludwig coughs and Francis whirls around, startled by the intrusion.

"You're up!" he exclaims. "How do you feel?"

Ludwig manages to speak, muttering, "Better. Francis smiles at him, an endearing look in his eyes.

"Hungry?" he asks. Ludwig gives a nod and half smile, and Francis motions for him to go into the parlor. "I'll make you something. Go turn on some football or something."

He settles on watching some mindless reality TV show that Francis has left on, since he sits down before he realizes that the remote is on the other side of the couch. He stares blankly at the screen, watching but not listening. Francis enters a few minutes later, carrying a bowl of something hot.

"It's broth," Ludwig is informed, "and it's hot." Francis gingerly hands the bowl to him, then settles down on the couch next to him. "I can't imagine that you're actually enjoying this," Francis comments, reaching for the remote. He changes it to football, which captures Ludwig's attention a little more. They sit quietly for a while, Ludwig sipping at his broth, half absorbed in the football match, while Francis pretends to pay attention but isn't very good at disguising the fact that he's helicoptering over Ludwig.

After a bit the silence becomes uncomfortable and Ludwig, who's taking his soup very slowly, feels the need to speak. "Sorry," he says quietly, throat croaking a bit. "For throwing up on everything you own."

Francis laughs, leans over and kisses his forehead. "That's what love is for, true?"

Ludwig feels better the next morning, but when he wakes he hears the distinctive sound of retching from the washroom. He finds Francis in his bathrobe, bent over the toilet and cursing Ludwig for getting him sick. He spends the whole day cleaning up vomit and fetching more blankets and it's tiresome and disgusting, but in the end, that's what love is for.


End file.
